Agoloso Presents - Atondido Stories Agoloso Presents - Mama Mada | Page 222
Mama Mada
Kith by Jo Be ll
A word made scant by frequent use.
I like it for its urgency and spit, for its
necessity. I like it for its oldness,
for its slingshot certainty.
I like it for its plainness; for belonging
to the Northern tongue behind my teeth.
I like it for its fighting talk.
The known. The tribe.
Something I can recognise:
something that recognises me.
I am not who I think I am
but who you know me to be.
The Dancers On Graves by G e rald ine Clark so n
gather at dawn, 21st June, by the large yew;
limber up, leaning on the back ends of monuments
and tombs; adjust bandeaux and legwarmers;
yodel a little, do scales to loosen the chi.
The relevant areas are corralled with ribbon,
beginning with John Henry Frayn, father o f three , down to
Dawn Mary Highgate, a friend to all.
The usual routines, salsa, merengue, rain-dance,
always come out altered on grass, especially
if the going is soft. Some were children when they
started; they say the day fits seamless
into their year. And a lady of 90 (who never forgot
the man who wronged her at seventeen)
resplendent in furs, performs a perfect foxtrot.
The Mercy Brigade sitting to one side, allocate
marks for flirtatiousness, precision, grace.
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